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Elsa
I glance at the clock on my bedside table as I slip on my come-fuck-me red dress. Tanner should be here soon. This is the dress I usually wear to a five-star French restaurant, not to eat take out on my couch.
Back to the closet to try again.
I’m like Goldilocks trying out each bowl of porridge, except it’s Max Mara dresses, Rag & Bone jeans and Madewell tees. So, it shouldn’t be a surprise that a t-shirt and pajama shorts will make a tad more low-key look than I want to project. That’s the kind of outfit you wear when you’ve been married for a decade and just put your three kids to bed.
But the third outfit is just right. Skinny jeans that hug my ass, paired with a buttery soft sunflower-blue t-shirt. The blue complements my eyes, while the way it curves around my breasts leaves nothing to the imagination where my tits are concerned.
Besides my outfit, what’s really concerning right now, however, is why I give a fuck what I’m wearing when Tanner gets here. It’s baffling. I look good in all my clothes—and especially out of them, as Tanner can attest.
I’ve never stressed myself this much on what to wear on a first date, much less a casual non-date like this. And Tanner bringing over Chinese food is the definition of casual. I built my company from scratch into a multibillion-dollar empire.
Granted, the empire’s a little shaky right now, but that doesn’t negate the years of hard work, the employees under me, or the balls I had to bust during the construction years.
I check my phone to see where the DLA stocks closed and happen to notice that my doorman hasn’t yet called to let me know that Tanner is waiting in the lobby for me to waive him up.
I haven’t been obsessively checking my phone for a Tanner alert every five minutes. Not at all. I’m a confident woman who needs no man.
The doorbell’s ring shakes me out of my little tour of sudden insecurities—which is a blessing because Elsa Fucking Blakely doesn’t get nervous over a man.
A quick stop at my hallway mirror shows me that I have no reason to be nervous. From my understated, yet flawless make-up, to my on-point blonde beachy waves, I look damn hot.
I’m still opening the door when Tanner pushes his way in, bringing the smell of General Tso’s Chicken with him. He looks damn fine tonight, as always.
He looks effortlessly casual in jeans and a tight t-shirt. Tight enough that you can see his chest muscles but not too tight to make him look like Eurotrash.
We might be sporting the same jeans and t-shirt combo, but my woman’s intuition tells me that he just grabbed the first two things out of his closet. He didn’t spend twenty minutes picking out his outfit. Damn men.
His hair looks a little disheveled. And as he runs his hand through his hair, I realize he’s been doing that for a while tonight, over and over. He only does that when he’s contemplating a big decision.
“How did you get up here?” I ask, taking some of the take-out containers out of the bag and spreading them out on my table.
“The usual way—by elevator,” Tanner says as he walks straight to my fridge, grabs a beer, and takes a long gulp. “Your doorman said I was on the list, so he let me come up.”
“Hmm,” I say with a mouth full of chicken. “I don’t remember doing that.”
“Well, I don’t know what to tell you,” Tanner says sharply while opening his second beer. “Apparently you did, because here I am.”
“Are you mad at me?”
“No,” Tanner says with a sigh and sits at the dining room table beside me.
“Then, stop taking it out on me and tell me what has put you in a bad mood.”
“I’m still trying to process it myself.”
“Process what?” I ask. “The more vague you are, the more nervous I get.”
“It’s my board. What they want me to do...want us to do...”
“Just tell me already.”
Fuck, I’ve never seen Tanner this hesitant before.
This is a guy who commands any and every room he enters. He doesn’t get nervous or intimidated. He’s the one who intimidates other people—who makes others quake in their shoes.
“They want us to...”
